


Winter's Call

by teaDragon



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Assassination Plot(s), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Post BotFA, hibernating hobbits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 14:17:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8920363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaDragon/pseuds/teaDragon
Summary: Hobbits need to hibernate during winter. If they do not get enough rest, and are not in a place their unconscious self recognizes as safe, their health suffers for the rest of the year.Or: two years after the battle, Bilbo returns to Erebor to sort out his flagging health and heavy heart. It was not his intention to arrive in time for a hostile attempt on the throne.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paranoid_fridge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_fridge/gifts).



> Happy Holidays paranoidfridge! This turned into a weird mish-mash of things, but I hope it's enjoyable (and not too poorly edited for being so rushed)
> 
> Some non-descriptive violence.

Of the free folk of middle earth, hobbits were probably the least known to the world at large. Their history was a quiet one, lacking in wars and great deeds, their heroes a less valiant sort, remembered only by hobbits themselves. Hardships they had suffered were rarely shared aloud, even among each other. There were no great records of their time before the Shire in the great wilds of the world, and what of it was shared orally if at all.

So it was that hobbits were considered unremarkable and unmemorable by any that bothered to consider them at all. This suited them just fine, as they were quite content in their own little corner of the west, happily ignoring the rest of the world.

After all, there was no need for others to know of their quirks and peculiarities if they stayed in the Shire. If anything the other folk were the odd ones. Going about all through the year, paying no mind to the proper order of things. How anyone could ignore the call of the Sleep in wintertime was beyond them, and simply uncouth to think of. 

No, hobbits knew what was best for them. Their homes and culture were tailored to it. Venturing outside of the Shire could only lead to trouble. It was one thing to travel in the spring and summer, but as soon as late fall came around where would you be without a safe place to hole up for the Sleep? It’s not as if the big folk would bother to understand.

So hobbits rarely left the Shire, and when they did it was always with the understanding to not travel too far and to return before winter and the Sleep took hold, or grave consequences would befall them.

 

~*~

 

“Master Baggins.”

“Bard!” Bilbo grinned up at the man as he scrambled out of the boat, his feet finding purchase on the damp wood of the docks. “It’s wonderful to see you again!”

“And yourself.” The man smiled warmly. The lines around his mouth and eyes were more pronounced than they had been when Bard was only a simple bowman, yet there was something more settled about him that spoke of peace and contentedness. It was good to see. “We weren’t sure if we’d seen the last of you when you’d returned to your home.”

“Yes well, I wasn’t so certain of that either.” He trotted alongside the man, thankful for his purposefully slower gait. The travel had worn him out, and big folk had such ridiculously long legs. “Mountains have a funny way of growing on you I’ve found, so here I am. ”

“Only to see the mountain?" commented Bard, raising an eyebrow. "No desire to see your friends, then?”

“Oh, well, I _suppose_ I may have missed everyone a little,” Bilbo laughed, plunging his hands into his pockets. Bard smiled down at him warmly.

“Indeed. The dwarves speak very fondly of you. Now come, let me show you to the manor.”

“Yes please. The weather in the east is so much harsher than it is back west. I’m afraid I’ve lost my tolerance for it. I would love to see more of Dale though. It looks beautiful.”

“I'm pleased to hear it. Perhaps you will see more of my City. There’s been news of a storm approaching tonight. This looks like the start of it. Come morning the path to Erebor may be completely closed off by snow.”

Bilbo faltered. “Oh dear.”

“Don’t worry." Bard clasped the hobbit on the shoulder. "The way will be cleared well before the Yule Celebrations. Dwarves are rather enthusiastic at digging, after all.”

“Yes, that they are!” chuckled Bilbo fondly. “I doubt they’d let a blizzard stop them from their work.” 

As they turned a corner the Lonely Mountain suddenly loomed before them, unobstructed by rooftops and the bulk of the city. Snow covered the great peak, outlining its shape dramatically against the night sky. Bilbo’s heart caught in his throat, the sight of that oh so familiar Mountain bringing the sting of tears to his eyes.

It had been a while.

 

He could remember it so very clearly, his first real look at the mountain from across the long lake. The much sought after end of their journey. Often he had tried to put into words exactly what he’d felt seeing the mountain for the first time. If fate had a feeling, it would be looking up from the churning water and seeing _it_ , harsh and unbending, that proud lone peak a presence all of its own, drawing them closer and closer to whatever fate awaited them. 

Seeing it now, Bilbo felt that same pull as he had before. He felt as if he were very small, standing before some ancient, powerful being, unable to resist its call.

He sighed, his breath puffing out before him in a white plume. There was no dragon waiting for him this time. By rights he should be ecstatic to see his friends again. And he was truly. But there was also the mess he had made of things, and whatever it was that lay thick and heavy between Thorin and he. Whatever was left of it anyhow.

 

~*~

 

The hard icy ground bit into his feet, a dull ache Bilbo slowly became aware of. He blinked slowly, noticing impassively the torn flesh of his knuckles, the sticky dried blood down the side of his head. As he shifted there was a sharp flare of pain in his side. An orc had struck him, the crude blade tearing through his tattered clothing to come up short against the gleaming mail beneath, allowing Bilbo to twist away, sting coming up and jabbing beneath the orc’s arm. 

He would surely be dead if not for the mithril shirt. If not for Thorin—

Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut, a shaky hand rising to cover his mouth.

_Thorin_

What had passed on Raven Hill that day was an eternity all of its own, one terrible lifetime replaying over and over in his mind. How long he had sat there, dull and transfixed by the smear of blood on the ice where Thorin had lain, he did not know. His memory of the trip down into the camp was hazy at best.

All that mattered was that Thorin was alive. Barely so, but alive.

Looking around at the bodies strewn carelessly about the ground, the distant ruin of Dale standing ragged in the weak light, the charred remains Laketown still visible above the water, Bilbo felt much like dying himself.

He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face and up through his curls roughly. That wouldn’t solve much of anything. More death was the last thing they needed.

 _Stupid, foolish hobbit_ , he thought to himself bitterly. _If only you hadn’t made such a mess of things. What good did it do? You betrayed your friends and a battle still broke out. Laketown is gone because of you. The least you can do is help, now that you’ve miraculously survived._

He would do just that. 

Rising to his feet he was hit with a wave of nausea, and he shut his eyes against its sudden onslaught. It passed soon enough, and the hobbit picked his way to the healing tents that had sprung up in the wake of the battle.

 

At first it had been hard. Every injured person he saw had morphed into Thorin, bleeding out on the ice, dying in front of him with nothing he could do. It brought tears to his eyes and bile to his throat. But he steeled himself against it—hobbits being a hardy folk under their soft natures—and forced the terrible visions away. The reality he was left with was hardly any better. Many suffered from far more gruesome wounds than Thorin's. 

He didn’t know what sort of person it made him that he was grateful those injuries had befallen others and not Thorin or his company, if they had to befall anyone at all.

It was nearly a trance he fell into, helping one patient after another, doing what little he could to help the former people of Laketown. The elves had themselves in hand, their camp orderly and calm despite the battle that had raged only a few hours prior. Bilbo did not think his very basic knowledge of healing would do much for their lifetimes of experience. He couldn’t bear being near to the dwarven encampment. Not just yet. Though he had made certain from Gandalf that all of his friends were alive and accounted for, relieved beyond words none had suffered grievous injury.

So he had gone to the camp of men. It was them he felt a debt with, his promises at Laketown and his own hand in its terrible demise weighing heavily on his mind. 

A hand clasped his shoulder.

“Get some rest, Master Hobbit.” Bilbo startled, looking up blearily at the unfamiliar woman that had stooped down beside him. “You’ve been working nearly the whole night.”

He opened his mouth to protest but couldn’t find the energy to form words. He blinked heavily, seeing his surroundings clearly in what must have been hours. The most dire wounds had been seen to. Those with injuries that proved too severe had already passed on.

“Come.” The woman’s hand was gentle but firm as she led him over to a corner, a blanket laid out for him as a makeshift bed. 

Bilbo was asleep almost before he lay down.

 

~*~

 

Time slipped by, though Bilbo had no real grasp of it. He didn’t want to have one. Whenever he stopped to think or feel for more than a few moments he was plagued with terrible visions. Death and war, bodies strewn about, his friends hurt and dying, Smaug descending on Laketown, Thorin casting him out, Thorin bleeding out in his arms, _Thorin_ —

So he simply kept going. Sleep did not help. He was roused by terrible nightmares that he could not remember on waking, but had left him shaking and nauseous all the same, robbing him of what little rest the act should have given him. 

He was awoken from a particularly bad nightmare by a gentle shake to his shoulder. He blinked rapidly, the large shape hovering over him forming into a blurry Gandalf, his wizened face creased with concern.

“My dear boy.” The wizard reached a gnarled hand to comb through Bilbo’s curls. “I’m afraid I’d quite forgotten the time of year.”

Bilbo blinked at him slowly, unable to find the strength to do much else and unwilling to move away from a friendly touch after so long without. “Sorry?”

“You’re feeling the call,” said Gandalf.

“Oh.” 

_Oh._

He had forgotten. He’d been concerned at first about going on such a quest, but Bilbo had assumed he’d only be gone a short time. A month or two at most. It turned out the world was much, much larger than he had ever thought and full of much more peril then he had ever imagined. The Sleep had completely slipped his mind with first the mad dash to the mountain and then the grief and war and madness in its wake.

“You certainly cannot stay here,” continued the wizard, watching him closely. “What of Erebor?”

 

Bilbo cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “No,” he said after a moment, closing his eyes miserably. “I can barely stand to think of it, after everything.”

“I had hopped the mountain would provide you shelter for the winter.”

The hobbit sighed, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “…so had I.”

Somehow over the course of the quest, Bilbo had come to think of Erebor as not just as the dwarves’ home, but as his own as well. It was never said in as many words, but it had been made clear again and again that he would be welcome once their home was reclaimed and the dragon driven out. They’d spent many a night telling stories of Erebor around the fireplace, both grand and familiar, painting the mountain in such vibrant colours. It wasn’t Bag End, not by a long shot, but something about those nights sat up with his dear friends had felt familiar. Safe and certain, it had been enough to make the hobbit wonder if life in a mountain was maybe something he would want himself. 

How things had changed.

Gandalf patted his arm consolingly. “Dale is out of the question. I wouldn’t imagine Thranduil’s Halls are terribly appealing to you, are they?”

Bilbo huffed a small laugh and pushed himself upright stiffly. Valar he was tired. “Afraid not. That forest is sick, and I’ve rather had my share of that place for at least a decade or two.” 

Now that he was looking for it, everything was much clearer. His body was beginning to shut down, readying itself for the Sleep. He would certainly need it after everything he’d been through in the last few months.

“Really Gandalf, I can make do. One bad winter isn’t disaster. As soon as the roads are open again I’ll find somewhere safe and rest a bit.”

“Don’t be foolish,” huffed the wizard, sending Bilbo a sharp look. “I’ll not have your health compromised anymore than it is. I’ve gotten you into this mess and I won’t be leaving you to face the winter alone. You cannot stay here. You may make it through the winter but what of after? How do you expect to manage a whole year?”

“It’s not ideal, but I can make do—“

“You will _not_. Not that I doubt your strength of spirit, but you won’t have need to test it so harshly. You are most fortunate not to be the only creature in the east that heads winter’s call.”

Bilbo frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Beorn is still here, and lucky for us that he is. He too will be readying for the Sleep, and when he heads back to his home I’ll see that you go with him. That will give you about two days. Do be ready by then.”

“But—have you even spoken with him? How do you—“

“He won’t turn you away,” said Gandalf, cutting him off with a careless wave of his hand. “In fact I rather suspect even if you didn’t need to Sleep he’d still take you in over the winter. Now, I’ve some business to attend to. I image you do as well, though I’d suggest you be mindful of your state and _rest_ as often as you need. I’ll collect you in two days time so see that you are ready to travel.”

The wizard rose and swept out of the tent, leaving the hobbit to his muddled thoughts and conflicted heart.

 

~*~

 

Bilbo sank gratefully into the copper tub, the gently steaming water heavenly after weeks on the road. He lent back with a tired sigh, soaking in the warmth and quiet of the room. 

So much had changed since he’d been gone. Sigrid and Bain and Tilda had all grown so much he’d barely recognized them. Even little Tilda was taller than him, much to her delight. Thankfully they still had the same youthful excitement about them that they’d had before becoming royalty nearly overnight. It was good to see the pressures of rule hadn’t changed that in them. Bard seemed truly happy now, if not greyer than he had been. But it was a good change. That hunted look was gone from his eyes and he’d filled out pleasantly, appearance no longer half-starved and scraggly.

Tilting back his head, Bilbo could just make out the tip of the mountain from his window. He wondered how another royal family had fared. 

Were Fili and Kili still causing mischief? 

Did Thorin too sport more grey hair? After all he had fought and sacrificed for, was the dwarf King finally happy?

Bard had mentioned the dwarves, speaking of their unending work to restore both Erebor and Dale to a lesser extent. Neither Kingdom would be unprepared should another disaster befall them, and many dwarves delighted in the chance to use their skills once more, the wealth of the mountain allowing them great freedom of craft. Trade was strong between the neighboring cities, Erebor doing its part to strengthen and renew the alliances of old.

 

There had been no mention of a Queen or Consort Under the Mountain to be. Bilbo had eventually given in and asked directly if Thorin was expected to marry when his subtle questioning had gotten nowhere. As far as Bard knew Thorin was free to marry but was under no pressure to do so. From the shrewd look the man had shot him, Bard knew _exactly_ why Bilbo had been asking about Thorin’s relationship status. And Sigrid had been laughing at his embarrassed stuttering, clearly of the same mind, _drat them._

From what Bard had told him, the King Under the Mountain was proving to be a fair and just ruler, much beloved by his people if not somber and withdrawn. He did not often leave the mountain. When he did come to Dale or Bard to Erebor, he was amendable and deeply committed to finding ways their people could work together to the benefit of both. The King did not take to excess, more concerned with hard work and the well-being of his people than with the glamor of Kingship. It was obvious from how Bard spoke that he approved of the dwarf King.

“He seems sad,” Tilda had added, wrinkling her nose at the greens on her plate. “Not at all like the princes. They’re funny. Thorin’s too serious all the time.”

A good King, then. But a happy one?

The hobbit’s heart clenched painfully, and he dunked his head under the water, giving his hair a good scrub to chase it away. 

Thoughts like that wouldn’t do any good at all. He’d be heading up to the mountain on the morrow (weather provided), and then he’d see for himself how everyone was. 

Thorin had never been one to look after himself, always putting his people first. It was far too easy to imagine the daft dwarf working himself too hard.

The image of Thorin, alone, bent over some lonely desk, face lined with stress and exhaustion plagued the hobbit, keeping him awake and restless long into the night.

 

~*~

 

Two days was not so very long a time. For all that Bilbo was eager to be away from a place of such grief and death he was not prepared to part from his friends. Such as they were, after everything.

His banishment had been lifted by a wounded and remorseful Thorin, and each of the company had taken the time assure him their friendship had not changed and that he was always welcomed in Erebor.

Yet Bilbo could not bring himself to enter the mountain. 

Perhaps the air was still too tense between them. Or maybe his lingering guilt over the Arkenstone and the destruction of Laketown would not allow him to settle. Whatever it was, it had the hobbit staying with the men instead of the dwarves. His friends were concerned, but they could tell he was deeply shaken by everything that had happened. Hobbits, hardy as they were, were not made for war.

It was more than that and Bilbo knew it. All the pressure of the last few months, all the danger and fear for his friends and guilt over Smaug and the Arkenstone, it was catching up with him. 

To make matters worse, it was getting colder and colder, coming close to that time of year in which a hobbit’s body needed to slow down and rest as much as possible. These lands, with fresh snow barley covering the blood on the jagged earth, were only bringing nightmares. 

The part of every hobbit that looks for warm and dry and _safe_ at the first sign of winter had awoken in his subconscious. And it had rejected the mountain. Part of him was called by it, the promise of dark fire-lit rooms deep and snug in the earth was tempting. But the memories of dragon fire and madness were too strong, and too soon. Gandalf was right. Staying would only be harmful to his health.

So it was with a heavy heart that Bilbo conceded he needed to leave.

Saying goodbye to his friends would be hard. Saying goodbye to Thorin would be like a blow to his very being. But he managed it, citing homesickness and exhaustion. Erebor was still more of a ruin than a home. Bilbo would just get in the way as he was, and if he were to eat as a hobbit should for the Sleep it would only strain their already precarious supplies. Not that he told them about the Sleep, mentioning only that hobbits needed more insulation for the colder months—which was true, and winter being so much harsher here it only made it worse. He must have looked properly worn out for them to agree so quickly.

There was one last task he needed to complete before he left. 

Thorin had called the mithril shirt a token of their friendship, and oh Bilbo had so badly wanted to deserve it. But it was given by a dwarf acting under the influence of gold sickness, to a hobbit who even then had the Arkenstone hidden away in his pocket. How could he possibly keep such a gift? He hadn’t deserved it then and he certainly didn’t deserve it now. It had saved his life in the battle he was sure of it, but such a priceless relic had no business being kept by a hobbit who betrayed his friends.

So he had been a coward and stole into the mountain one last time, leaving the mithril folded on Thorin’s bed. He’d done it just before bidding the company farewell, leaving it for Thorin to find when he returned to his rooms after. 

The acorn he’d laid atop it was as much of an apology as a confession.

 

~*~

 

Spring finally came around and thawed out the earth, tendrils of life reaching up tentatively into the air. All things began to wake from their slumber, shaking off winter’s heavy grasp and breathing in the fresh new air of a renewed earth.

Bilbo had known better than to expect much of that for himself. What a hobbit needed during the Sleep was dark and warm, and plenty of food already eaten and more ready to be so. Most importantly a hobbit must be _safe_. Not the kind of safe as a basic shelter is to a traveler in a rainstorm. It was the kind of safe that was associated with memories and sounds and textures. For many hobbits it was their homes that made this, their smials full of comfortable things, warm and familiar. 

Curled up on the wooden floor of Beorn’s great house, laid before a low fire with slumbering sheep and dogs all around, Bilbo wasn’t sure what he felt. He was warm and safe enough to satisfy his most basic needs. It wasn’t truly enough. Not after all he had been through. He ached with a bone deep exhaustion, his heart sore from everything he had done and seen. It was enough to see him through comfortably enough. But refreshed and renewed come spring he was not.

 

He could feel Gandalf eyeing him worriedly as he clambered up on his pony.

“I’m fine, really.”

The wizard hummed and said nothing, the angle of his eyebrows comment enough on what he thought of that. 

Bilbo knew something was wrong. Not terribly wrong. The wrong of a cup of tea tasting off somehow, of walking to the market and forgetting the shopping list at home. 

Little wonder, he thought to himself. Hobbits were not meant to leave the Shire. Especially not in the winter. 

 

~*~

 

Hobbits celebrate the coming of the new year in the spring. It truly is a renewal, a great (and literal) awakening of society. Winter is nothing more than a strange dream in the bright exuberance of spring. For that is what the Sleep is for. It is a time of healing, for the body to rest and restore itself and the mind to reflect deeply. Lingering injuries and sickness will recover substantially, spring bringing new energy and strength. And the dreams a hobbit will have! Not often remembered on waking, but what truths are bared in slumber remain known deep down.

Spring is the time of many new things. It is when courting begins, new professions are chosen, and flagging relationships finally come to an end. The insight and renewal of strength will last all through the year, waning when the call is felt again in late fall.

The fresh, clean air of spring through the windows of his smial brought Bilbo to a conclusion he had long been denying; Bag End was no longer his home. It was full of familiar and much loved things, but it was no longer safe. Not like it had been before. Not since Bilbo had gone away and come back again.

His dreams had been full of deep voices, much too low to belong to any hobbit, raised in a haunting song. The smell of wild pine and campfire smoke, stars bright in a far sky. Rough, warm hands, and easy shared affection. Warm blue eyes gazing at him so softly, so fondly.

The dreams did not lie. Nor did his aching bones or groggy head. No longer could he excuse his disorientation on a winter spent abroad.

Somehow his center, his deep subconscious understanding of home, of _safe_ , had shifted. Truthfully it was not much of a surprise. Ever since he’d returned to the Shire things had felt off. He’d been lying to himself, telling himself he was happy, that the Shire was everything he’d remembered it being. That he didn’t miss his friends with a terrible ache, didn’t wake up some mornings disappointed to find himself in his smial. 

Stumbling out into the bright spring day he sat down heavily on his bench, feeling vaguely sick and nauseous. Birds chirped brightly around him, everything green and growing, the promise of new life all around. Bilbo would have liked little better than to crawl back into bed. 

Hamfast’s cheerful whistling coming up the lane had him wincing, his head pounding as if he’d had a wild night out with his Took cousins instead of resting all winter.

“’Morning Mister Bil—stars and bells!” 

From the way Hamfast was gaping at him, Bilbo knew he must have been a sight. 

“Good Morning Hamfast,” he offered, smiling slightly at his old friend.

“What in the Shire—did—are you—begging your pardon for saying so, but you look right awful!”

“I have to go back," Bilbo said simply, knowing it was true. There was nothing else to be done.

The older hobbit stared at him for a moment before nodding, his round face serious. “Aye. I reckon you do. Thought you might, from the way you’ve been drifting around if you don’t mind me saying so. Haven’t been yourself at all. This just proves it.”

Bilbo smiled at his friend. “Would you mind watching Bag End for me while I'm gone? I'll see to it that you're paid for your troubles.”

Hamfast flapped a hand at him. “Of course I will! But no talk of that just yet. You get yourself back inside and rest a bit more. Don’t go dashing off again. You’ll need to plan this properly so’s you can make it all the way back to the far ends of the earth—bless me that you’ve gone so far.”

There was no denying it. He needed to go back. He had to know if he could truly call the Mountain home, or if he would be left without one.

 

~*~

 

Shortly after falling asleep, Bilbo was awoken most rudely upon falling on wooden floor of his room, hard.

Dazed and muddled he cursed and tried to get his bearings, blinking into the darkness of the room. He pushed himself to his knees only to nearly topple over again as the ground shuddered beneath him.

“What on earth,” he breathed, the objects on the dresser rattling about under the onslaught. Half a breathless minute later, the shaking finally subsided-whatever it was-the world righting itself once again and falling to stillness. 

Tentatively he pushed himself to his feet, adrenaline clearing the fog from his mind and sharpening his senses. He could hear voices, people shouting, loud and frightened through the town.

Hurrying over to his bag, he clumsily pulled on his clothes in what meager light came through the window. Sting was buckled to his belt before he left the room, making his way downstairs and following voices from the main part of the manor. 

“—down, Smaug is dead. That was no dragon.”

 

Reaching the ground floor, Bilbo peered into the main room to see it full of people, many only clad in nightclothes and coats. Bard was in the middle, a strong commanding presence before his people.

“It was from the mountain!” shouted a man. “A new dragon has come to Erebor!”

“There was no fire, how could it be a dragon?” Asked another.

“That was from underground that was, not above.”

“What else could it be? Another dragon has come to reign punishment down on the dwarves!”

“That’s rubbish! There are no great dragons left!”

“We’d be the first to know if a dragon came. Old Smaug took down Dale first before going for the mountain. I’d wager we’d be the first to go again.”

“It’s Smaug himself, risen from the dead for revenge!”

“Calm down everyone!” called Bard, managing to quiet the crowd. “We accomplish nothing by panicking and arguing among ourselves. The night watch has seen no sign of a dragon nor foe. We will wait to hear from Erebor about the cause of the disruption before coming to any conclusions.” 

Almost as soon as he finished speaking a raven swooped down through a open window, landing with a flutter on Bard’s hastily risen arm.

“What news?” he asked the bird.

“King Bard," croaked the raven, fluttering her wings importantly. “Erebor has been attacked by a hostile host of dwarves. They breached the mountain from underground and entered the city thus.”

“That shaking was fire powder?!”

“Nay. A great were-worm.” There were gasps from all around. It seemed the people of Dale had not forgotten the huge beasts responsible for delivering a large part of the orc army those few years ago. “It forced a way into our lower levels on their behalf. It is dead now,” continued the raven, raising her voice over the sudden rise of panicked voices. “Erebor is protected by many charms, the breach cost the creature dearly. Dale is in no danger from it.”

“What of this host?” asked Bard tersely. “How great is it?”

“A few hundred. They stand no chance against the might of Erebor. To prevent any from escaping we will be closing the mountain until it is cleared of any foes. There will be no threat to Dale.”

“I am glad to hear of it. But if I may ask, why would such a small force breach the mountain?”

The raven stared at Bard a moment before responding. “There have been whispers of an attempt to usurp the throne. We believe this is their intent.”

 _And assassinate the king_ went unsaid. Concerned murmurs broke out all through the room.

“Is there anything we can do?” asked Bard grimly. 

“Nay. Your offer is appreciated, but dwarves know the mountain best. This threat is internal and will be dealt with thus. There will be word once the mountain is clear and ready to be opened once again.”

“Thank you, friend.” Bard nodded his head respectfully at the raven. She returned the gesture and took off, leaving through the same window she had come in. 

“Fendir, Sheila, see that word gets out to the rest of the City,” started Bard, the guards springing to action. “Crowe, see the watches are doubled. We will not let our guard down while our neigbours are in danger. Have the road to Erebor closed. We will not risk anyone nearing its borders. As for everyone else, it is early yet. Try to get what sleep you can before morn.”

The crowd finally began to disperse, everyone talking among themselves as they left the manor.

“Is everyone accounted for?” asked Bard, eyes sweeping over his children. “Someone will have to tell Master Baggins. He will have to extend his stay here longer yet.”

“He was here, Da,” said Sigrid. “I saw him earlier.”

“Me too,” added Bain.

Bard frowned. “Master Baggins?” he called, looking around for the hobbit. “Bilbo?”

But Bilbo was long gone.

 

~*~

 

Following Hamfast’s advice, Bilbo had planned his trip carefully. 

The roads were safer now than they had been thanks to the death of the Goblin King and the fall of Azog and his army. Traveling would be faster and easier than it had been now secrecy was no longer an issue. Yet Bilbo had to be careful and take his health into account. For the second winter in a row he had found little rest during the Sleep. His body and mind had not truly been able to heal after everything he’d been through during the quest and the battle afterwards. It made him slower, more prone to bouts of dizziness and fatigue, more vulnerable to sickness and infection. 

But he had to go. If Erebor truly was the safe heaven his subconscious was calling for, he needed to find out and risk travel in his weakened state. 

Shortly after he had returned to the Shire he had received a letter from the Lonely Mountain. Everyone had written him, telling him news of the restoration and asking after his well-being. There had also been an invitation to return Erebor for the Yule Celebrations, if he could bear parting home again so soon. Being drained as he was from a fitful winter and barely being back more than a month Bilbo had declined.

When he received another invitation this year, he was quick to accept.

Gandalf had been the first person he wrote, explaining his predicament and his impending journey back east. The wizard had written back quickly, but had been unable to accompany Bilbo, being tied up in business elsewhere. He did promise to arrange an escort to meet the hobbit in Bree and take him to Rivendell. Elrond would see to it that he reached Mirkwood and Thranduil’s realm safely. From there on it was only a ride up the river to Dale and Erebor beyond.

So it was that by the end of spring, Bilbo had packed his things and written out his will, ready to leave the Shire once more. Possibly for good.

 

~*~

 

The harsh mountain winds whipped by, sharp and stinging through the jagged rock and trees. Bilbo grit his teeth and kept on, keeping his head down and following the path up to the mountain as best he could. Snow swirled about, blowing in great icy waves across the frosty ground. The storm had truly hit, much as Bard had warned it would. But Bilbo had made up his mind and would not be deterred. Not that there ever really was a choice.

His dwarves were in danger, his dearest friends— _Thorin_ was in danger. He’d darted outside before he’d given conscious though to it. It was instinct, pure and simple and he would follow it through. 

Bilbo was under no impression that he alone could turn the tide of the battle. But swift and silent he could be, especially with his ring. He would do everything he could to defend his friends until the attack was over. It was unbearable to think of something happening now, after all the hardship and danger they’d faced, when they were supposed to be safe and happy. 

The snow came up to his knees, ice crusting the surface and stinging against his shins with each labored step. Each breath he took burned in his lungs, the air too sharp, too cold for his body. The tips of his ears and fingers had started to go numb.

This was very risky. He knew deep down he could not afford this kind of exertion. Already he could feel himself tiring, drawing on what little reserves of strength he had managed from last winter. The cold only made it worse. Even if he were properly plump and healthy a storm such as this would be a terrible strain on a hobbit. Bilbo knew this. By all rights he ought to turn around and head back to Dale, to wait out the worst of winter's chill and recover his strength. He squinted against the glow of the snow and quickened his pace. 

Finally the gate to Erebor was before him. The great might of the Lonely Mountain blocked out most of the wind and allowed him to catch his breath. He approached warily, eyeing the great front door of Erebor. It was sealed shut, impressive stone sentinels flanked on either side, standing proud and grim, silent against the force of the storm. Squinting, his sharp eyes picked out faint movement off to the side. A smaller gate was off to the right, two dwarves standing guard in the sheltered alcove aside it. 

He licked his lips. Right. That was where he’d get in. But how? Surely they wouldn’t just let him into a quarantined city because he asked nicely?

A sharp caw sounded just behind him. He turned, looking on in bewilderment as the same raven from Dale fluttered down to land on his hastily risen arm. The bird stared at him, cocking her head to the side, gaze steady and piercing.

“Bilbo Baggins.”

He nearly upset her perch on his arm in shock. She knew his name.

“Why do you seek entrance to the Mountain?” she asked.

Shaking himself, he answered as best as he was able. “My friends are in danger.”

“You are a hobbit.” His eyes widened. Not many out east knew that word. Most used halfling if they were to use a name for hobbits at all. “It is not safe for you.”

“I must help them. They would do the same for me if my life were in danger.”

She held his gaze calmly, unperturbed by the snow and wind whistling past. Then she clucked her beak, approval flickering in her dark eyes. “Then let us see how swift and silent you are, burglar.”

Her talons tightened briefly on his arm before she launched herself into the air, making directly for the guards at the side gate. They hadn’t noticed the bird nor the hobbit, and it was only when she was a few feet away that she let out a shrill cry, alerting both dwarves to her presence. They stood to attention, and then scattered in alarm as she dove right at them.

Heart in his throat, Bilbo jammed the ring on his finger and ran, taking the distraction for what it was and making for the gate. He slipped past the cursing guards and into the warm shelter of Erebor.

Disorientation hit him, the icy wind and raging weather suddenly blocked out entirely, one wall of sound replaced by another. 

For the mountain was clearly in chaos. A deep, resounding horn sounded deep, _deep_ beneath his feet, echoing all through the mountain and causing the stone to vibrate slightly from the force of it. It was such a foreign sound, the call of some ancient primeval beast at the dawn of the word, it had him frozen in place in awe. The distant sound of raised voices brought him back to himself and he ran, darting through the nearly deserted entry way and deeper in the mountain proper. 

It opened before him, halls and walkways branching out every which way they could. It was much as he remembered it, the grandness, the heavy sense of history-of memory, the deep green marbling the stone, smooth under his feet as he ran. The mountain felt nearly alive, not the musty tomb he had last stepped foot in but a living creature lit with a glowing golden light. 

 

Dwarves were clustered around the opening of a passageway. A heavily armored dwarf ran up and out of it, calling out “Close it off!” The hobbit watched in awe as one of them reached into what looked like the bare stone of the wall and began pulling what must have been a hidden door out of it, sliding the heavy stone slab across the passage and closing it off. It shut with a deep _click_ , a gear shifting into place and a bright rune glowing on the surface of the door before fading. The dwarves ran off, heading towards the next set of passageways and calling to each other as they did.

A sharp spike of fear rushed through him. What if he was too late to find Thorin? What if those passageways had been closed off already? He firmly ignored what looked like a patch of blood spilt on the ground and kept running, unsure of where to go but determined not to give up. 

Movement from above caught his eye. The raven soared slow and graceful over the rushing dwarves below her, heading with a steady purpose towards the lower passages across the hall. Without knowing where else to go Bilbo took off after her, his bare feet making no sound on the smooth marble beneath them as he ran. 

He dodged around dwarves, running as fast as he dared over a rail-less walkway stretched high above a terrible drop, shutting off his mind and simply moving. It felt almost as if he were floating, his self separate from his body, the sounds all around and beneath him nearly muffled, all slowing and narrowing down to the silent slap of his feet and keeping his breaths even and regular as he ran. 

Reaching the other side of the drop he headed down a flight of stairs and through another passageway, darting around a group soldiers. His stomach twisted at the sight of a wounded dwarf being carried away. He could _not_ be distracted. 

The passage led into a wide hall full of dwarves, soldiers and civilians everywhere. As he neared, a large group made their way out of a tunnel, guards on either side urging them on. 

“That’s everyone, close it up!”

The raven swooped into the tunnel as the dwarves began to pull the door from the wall, readying to shut the tunnel behind it. Bilbo sprinted through the crowd, ignoring the bruises he received from shoving through as fast as he could. Finally he was cleared of the crowd. 

Sucking in a desperate breath he barreled towards the tunnel, urging himself to move faster, _faster_ , before it was shut. He just managed to squeeze by, shoving his way past the guards and into the small space between the wall and the dwarf pulling the door shut. Brushing past the dwarf he tumbled into the tunnel beyond, headless to their cries of confusions as he raced ever deeper into the mountain. 

 

~*~

 

“Thorin, _down!_ ”

The dwarf dropped to a crouch, keeping his eyes on the foe before him and deflecting the strike meant to impale him. He felt the rush of air pass over him where an unseen assailant had struck, Dwalin grunting next to him and the wet sound of iron through flesh telling him the dwarf had been felled.

He rose swiftly and kicked out with his boot, catching the Blacklock dwarf in front of him in the chest and sending him sprawling backwards. 

“Alright there, laddie?” asked Dwalin, lumbering closer as the Blacklocks kept their distance, watching warily from the shadows of the hall for a chance to strike. They could only guess at how many were left. The Blacklocks had swarmed through the halls like roaches, intent not on victory in battle but on chaos and confusion, scattering Erebor’s army to leave its leader vulnerable and with only a fraction of the guards left to aid him. Whether it was just plain back luck that Thorin had been down in the mines at the time of attack or if it was planned was unknown, but it had been awfully effective.

What had been a regular inspection of the Western Mines turned into blind panic, those more gifted in stone sense suddenly tense and unsettled for no reason. He had been trying to discover the cause when the mountain shook all around them, causing several near cave-ins and partial collapses. The great were-worm bursting through the wall had been explanation enough as to the source of the distress. The hoard of vicious Blacklock warriors were almost unnecessary.

It did add up with Nori’s warnings of a whispered attempt to take the throne.

Thorin tossed his hair over his shoulder, his dark mane dirty with sweat and grime from the fight. He scoffed, rolling his shoulders and ignoring the sharp spike of pain from a bruise to his ribs.

“’Course," he grunted. "Just because I have a throne doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how to fight.” 

Dwalin grinned, teeth bloody from the knock to the face he’d taken a half hour back. “Could of sworn I’d handed yer arse to ye just the other day.”

“I must have hit you in the head too many times if that’s what you remember of it.” The familiar banter grounded him, both dwarves taking comfort in it as they regrouped. 

 

A low cry pierced the air. He spared a glance upward, spying his personal raven Ikräol swooping overhead through the chamber. She cawed again before flying out through a small tunnel near the ceiling, made specially for such a purpose. Good. She had successfully passed her message to Dale.

Now all they had to do was finish off the intruders. 

A few more of their guard came running into the chamber from the north-eastern passage, joining their defensive group eagerly. 

“Aksel, report!” called Dwalin, recognizing one of the newcomers.

“The upper levels are nearly all blocked off. We’re keeping what fighting there is well away from residential areas. The few scum that escaped up that way will have a hard time finding a place to regroup.”

“Good,” growled Dwalin.

It was a tricky situation. There should be more guards here to protect the King. Yet the Blacklocks had scattered, spreading out to cause as much confusion and fear as they could. The effect was that the whole mountain was in danger and Erebor’s army had to be everywhere. Thankfully the princes and Dis had been in the higher levels when the attack began, well away from the brunt of the attack. It was only Thorin who was in the most danger. More help would come to the King when it could. For now he was left alone with his personal guard and whoever could be spared from the upper levels. 

They would just have to hold out long enough for more help to come.

 

~*~

The dwarf king was magnificent in battle, his dark hair flying, Orcrist a beautiful and deadly force in his hands. Bilbo was drawn to him immediately, eyes drinking in his form, searching desperately for any visible wound or injury on his person. Dwalin was fighting at his side, his great bulk a comfort to see.

But the fight was not over yet, and yet still more dwarves moved to attack from the shadows.

Bilbo crept closer to the loose circle of Erebor guards. He didn't know how much help he’d be, but he’d do what he could. Panting, he scanned the chamber grimly. They were in something of a wide intersection, tunnels and alcoves branching off all around. It worked against them, allowing the intruders to easily hide in the shadows and strike suddenly. It was no military victory they sought, only the assassination of the King. Bilbo’s hand gripped Sting tightly, his stance steady and firm, determination clearing the fog from his mind. 

A loud blast nearly had him tumbling to the ground, a bright light exploding in the gloom and binding him temporarily. The acrid smell of smoke filled his nose, the scent reminding him of fireworks at the Old Took’s party.

These were no pretty fireworks. And this was about as far from a party as it could be. He blinked desperately, trying to clear his vision. Something had changed. He could hear Dwalin swearing, ordering everyone to stay on guard. None of the enemy dwarves were in sight.

Where were they?

 

Three dark forms darted out of the shadows and launched themselves straight at Thorin. Bilbo saw red. 

Invisible, he darted forward, slashing out with Sting and slicing one of the attackers in the back of the knee. They went down hard and were quickly finished off by another guard. The assault continued, dwarves coming at them from all sides. How may of them were there? 

A flash of light caught his eye, the glint of a knife far above them, poised and ready to strike. Aiming right at--

_Thorin_

His heart stopped.

Bilbo didn’t think. His mind was completely blank as he launched himself at Thorin, colliding heavily with the dwarf and sending them both to the ground.

 

~*~

Thorin had the breath knocked out of him from the force of the impact. He had seen a glint of a knife out of the corner of his eye and then something had knocked him down, its solid weight even now atop him. Sitting up, the weight shifted and he looked down to see what it was. 

Nothing.

_What?_

“Shields!” roared Dwalin, stepping directly in front of Thorin. Immediately the guards formed a close circle around their King, raising their shields and forming a near impenetrable wall.

Thorin shook his head, trying to clear it. The weight remained across his legs and on his stomach. Had he been struck and paralyzed? He felt no new injury. 

His hands came up, mind trying to make sense of it. He felt fabric, and what felt like the softness of a body. It was moving slightly, and now that he was looking for it he could hear soft, pained breaths. As if someone had fallen on him. But why could he not see them? What type of magic could—

His mind shuddered to a screeching halt, the pieces clicking together.

“No, no no no please Mahal _no_ ,” he pleaded, eyes wide in sudden fear.

There was only one he knew of that could go unseen. One small, so very dear someone.

He felt along the small body desperately, wishing himself to be wrong, pleading it was not--That was no dwarf. Frantically he fumbled for the right arm, grasping a small, cold hand in his own.

His fingers closed around a small band of metal and he pulled. 

_Oh Mahal_

It was with shaking hands that he touched golden curls, arms moving to support the all too familiar hobbit laying limp across him. His eyes were shut, his breaths shallow and pained, and worst of all was the wet patch of red spreading out from the gleaming knife, protruding cruelly from his side.

“Bilbo,” breathed Thorin brokenly, staring down at the small body in shocked horror. It could not be. “ _Bilbo._ ” 

This couldn’t be happening. Bilbo could _not_ be here. He was in Dale, safe and far from any danger. For months Thorin had planned and agonized over the hobbit’s arrival for Yule, determined to make everything as comfortable and welcoming as possible for the dear hobbit that had so completely stolen his heart. It was to be his chance to show Bilbo that Erebor would welcome him with open arms-that he was _so_ missed and loved and would want for nothing ever again if only he would stay with them. With Thorin, even if he did not deserve it.

He could not be here now, lying limp and shaking in his arms, bleeding out in some cursed tunnel. Once again risking himself for a foolish old dwarf.

“I need a healer _now!_ ” Thorin roared, clutching Bilbo to him tightly. Ikräol shrieked from high up somewhere, hearing his call. She would find Oin. Mahal alone knew how long it would take for help to arrive.

The hobbit's skin was frighteningly cold. He hunched over the smaller being protectively, cradling him to his chest tightly. He was wary of removing the knife. As much as it sickened him to see it there in the hobbit’s side, removing it could cause him to bleed out. He cupped Bilbo’s face in his hands, smoothing back his unruly curls and thumbing at the corner of his eyes gently, oblivious to the fighting still going on around them. 

“Bilbo _please_ , hold on," he pleaded, voice choked with emotion. "You’re going to be alright-I swear it. Just hold on.” 

Thorin’s heart leapt as Bilbo groaned, his eyes fluttering weakly, pain etched in deep lines across his face. He coughed wetly, blearily looking up at Thorin. “..You…alrigh’...?” he slurred, head lolling weakly against Thorin's chest.

Thorin huffed a tight laugh, tears burning at his eyes. He held the small body closer to him, running a soothing hand over Bilbo’s back. “Thanks to you. I owe you my life, many times over it seems. You are always saving me, dear hobbit.”

A tremendous shout sounded. Ereborian guards flooded into the chamber, swiftly overwhelming the enemy with their sheer number. Reinforcements had finally come from above. Thorin barely spared them a glance.

“...'M glad…” The hobbit’s eyes slipped closed, a weak moan escaping his paling lips. 

“Bilbo, stay with me,” Thorin said urgently, jostling the smaller being. But the hobbit’s eyes had slipped shut and he did not stir. Cursing, Thorin laid a hand over the pulse point on Bilbo’s neck, desperate to feel his life blood. It was slow, his heart beating sluggishly under his hand. Thorin shut his eyes and forced himself to breathe, pushing back the blind terror at the thought of loosing Bilbo.

“Thorin!” He looked up at the shout, spotting Oin shoving his way past guards to get to him.

“Oin!”

“Durin’s Beard!” cursed the healer, catching sight of the bleeding hobbit in Thorin’s arms. He bent to work immediately, not bothering to ask how or why, only tending to the more important task of keeping Bilbo alive. “He’s going cold,” Oin muttered to himself, shaking his head. 

“Can you save him?” asked Thorin tersely, grasping one of Bilbo’s hands in his own.

“Like bugger I'll let him die on us like this! Get that stretcher over here now!”

Finally, _finally_ help was here. 

But had it come too late?

 

~*~

 

Bilbo was floating. 

Everything was dark and warm and so very comfortable. He could make out sounds, voices maybe, speaking as if from a great distance away. An overwhelming feeling of _safe_ settled deep into his being, and he relaxed into it, answering the call and succumbing to the Sleep he so badly needed.

He was so very tired...

For how long he drifted he did not know. When he became aware of himself again, it was to find he was covered warmly, laying on something soft. He let his senses soak everything in, not bothering to open his eyes just yet. It was wonderfully comfortable and warm, and he planned to indulge in it for a while yet.

Slowly he became aware of a dull ache in his side. His body was heavy, so heavy, the weight of the furs atop him vast and unmovable. 

A soft sound escaped his lips. Immediately there was movement, a presence appearing at his side. A large hand cradled his own, another laying gently over his brow. Bilbo sighed, indulging in the friendly touch.

“Bilbo?”

That voice. How Bilbo loved that voice.

With great effort he managed to open his eyes, though they closed again on their own almost immediately. The Sleep was calling him, his body still needing more rest. No matter how badly he wanted to see his companion.

“-orin...” he managed, already drifting back to sleep.

 

~*~

 

Some time later, Bilbo woke up properly, feeling thick and sluggish but more aware than he had been. He blinked into the stillness of the room, taking in the many furs piled atop his bed and the fire casting everything in a warm glowing light.

“Well, look who’s awake.”

He turned his head to spot Oin sitting on a chair at his side.

“Hullo,” greeted Bilbo, clearing his throat. Everything felt stiff and heavy. The old dwarf beamed at him.

“Hullo yerself Master hobbit. Now, let me have a look at you." As if he had much of a choice. Bilbo felt as weak as a kitten. The healer carefully pulled back the blankets and furs, checking him over carefully. “Good, you’re warming up. And that nasty knife wound of yours is healing nicely. Remarkable..." he muttered, shaking his head, hand carefully splayed around the edges of the wound.

“Knife wound?” asked Bilbo, frowning. He tried to peer down at himself. It was stirring at something in his memory, but he couldn’t remember what. “How did I...get— _Thorin!_ ”

It all came rushing back to him. He flailed, trying to get up. Oin pushed him down with a firm hand, having none of it. “That’s enough of that, laddie."

“Thorin, is, is he alright?!”

“He’s just fine," soothed Oin, giving the hobbit a pat on the shoulder. "So’s everyone else for that matter, apart from you. I reckon you’ll be seeing our illustrious leader soon enough for yourself. It’s been a right pain in the arse to get him to be anywhere else these last few days.”

“What about the attack? 

“Taken care of. They made more of a mess than anything else. Bloody Blacklocks. Now." he turned a stern eye on the hobbit. "You’re to eat plenty of food while you're awake, if that wizard is to be believed.”

“Is-is Gandalf here?” asked Bilbo as Oin helped him sit up against the headboard. Even that small exertion felt too much, and he had to shut his eyes against a wave of dizziness. 

“Aye, and a good thing too.” Oin went over to a table, bringing a tray back with him. There was a metal bowl on it, covered with a thick lid. He twisted the lid off, steam instantly escaping. He winked at Bilbo’s startled expression. “Some dwarf magic for ye, laddie. Eat up now, you’ll need yer strength.”

It was perhaps the best thing he had ever smelled. His mouth began watering immediately, and he carefully he grasped the offered spoon, bringing the stew up to his mouth. He shut his eyes, nearly moaning at the taste.

“That’s a lad,” chuckled Oin, rubbing his back affectionately as Bilbo ate as fast as he could manage. He was ravenous. “Had us all worried ta death ye did. Thought we’d lost you when you went all cold like that. Saved your life whatever that was, I reckon you’d have bled out if your heart hadn’t slowed down so much.” 

Bilbo felt he should have been more concerned, both at the thought of how close to death he had come and of the dwarves learning about the Sleep, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Don’t worry about it now," continued Oin. "You’re safe, and that’s all that matters. You eat that and rest, we’ll discuss your funny hobbit biology later, eh?”

“Thank you,” Bilbo smiled gratefully, stew almost gone. He felt properly warm for the first time in what left like months.

“Ach, none of that.” Oin waved him off. “Even if ye weren’t as good as kin, you saved Thorin. Reckon the whole mountain owes you for that.”

A knock on the door saved Bilbo from replying. Oin patted his arm and went to let whoever it was in.

“Speak o' the dragon, if it isn’t his majesty himself.”

Bilbo jerked, head raising to see Thorin standing in the doorway. Their eyes met. The dwarf looked tired, dark bags laying under his eyes, something unsure and hesitant about him. The King cleared his throat. 

“Is this a bad time?” he asked, eyes roaming over Bilbo anxiously.

Oin smacked him up the side of the head. “Oh _now_ you’re asking! Seemed to have no problem with letting yourself in and getting in my way just yesterday. Go on then, I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

The healer left muttering to himself, leaving the two alone in the room. Thorin stayed where he was. Plucking at the covers, Bilbo cast an uncertain gaze at the dwarf, biting his lip.

“May I…?” Thorin gestured at the chair next to the bed. 

“Please.”

“It is...good to see you so well ,” said Thorin as he settled himself in the chair. He watched the hobbit closely, eyes running over his frame carefully.

“You as well. I mean—I had hoped I had been in time…”

A dark cloud passed over the dwarf’s face, his brow furrowing. “Bilbo.” He took a deep breath, eyes pained. “I cannot even begin to say how thankful I am for you.”

Bilbo's heart skipped a beat, his face flushing. He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t sure if I could be any help," he confessed, fingers plucking at the furs. "But I couldn’t bear to think of you in danger and not do something.” 

A muscle in Thorin’s jaw tightened, and he looked down, hands clenching in his lap. “You saved my life. At great risk to your own.”

Bilbo watched him helplessly, unsure what to do. “You’re my friend, Thorin," he said quietly. "I don’t really have many of those. I don’t want to loose one, you see. Certainly not, not you. Not after everything... ”

“If you hold our friendship in any kind of esteem will you please do something for me?”

Bilbo swallowed nervously at the low tone, meeting the piercing blue gaze steadily. “Of course.”

Thorin reached into the folds of his tunic, drawing out a package wrapped in cloth. He unfolded it, pushing away the fabric to reveal the bright mithril beneath.

“I know I have no right to ask. I betrayed you that cursed day on the battlements far more than you ever betrayed me. But please, _please_ accept this. Wear it. I cannot bear to see you harmed again. Not on my behalf.”

Bilbo stared at the mithril shirt. Slowly he reached out, passing the shinning metal and grasping one of Thorin’s rough hands with his own. The dwarf startled, sending Bilbo a quick look of bewilderment. Slowly he curled his fingers, catching Bilbo’s smaller ones in a cautious hold.

“Oh Thorin," sighed the hobbit, closing his eyes for a moment. "You must know that I did the terrible thing I did to try and save you. It wasn’t right, and I’m _so_ sorry I hurt you. But you see, as long as it would save you, I’d risk anything. You’re my very dearest friend, Thorin. I couldn't bare to loose you. I only left the shirt behind because I felt I did not deserve it.”

The mithril dropped to the floor in a forgotten heap. Thorin clutched at Bilbo’s hand, eyes bright and imploring.

“You accept? You’ll wear it?” he asked desperately. Bilbo knew he was asking about something much greater than the shirt.

Bilbo smiled, blinking back tears. “Of course I will. I would be honored.”

“Good,” breathed the dwarf, slumping with relief. He rubbed the hobbit's hand with his thumb affectionately. " _Good._ "

“There was something between us,” began Bilbo slowly, averting his eyes. “Before, I mean. That, that awful day, we lost whatever it was. I…I’d like to see if we could get it back. If you'd be interested in, ah, that? With, with me.”

“Yes,” breathed Thorin, breaking into a soft smile. "I would like that very much." The dwarf's expression changed. “But now you must rest. You were gravely wounded. I do not know what kind of hobbit magic you have that lets you sleep so deeply and heal so quickly, but I am very glad of it.”

Bilbo chuckled, sinking down into the pillows. Oh, he was exhausted. “I’m afraid it’s not very exciting. In the winter we need to rest. We’ll sleep for many hours a day, sometimes only rising to eat and use the privy. It’s very boring really, but it must be done somewhere we feel safe or else it won’t work properly at all.”

“What happens when it doesn’t work?” asked Thorin, helping him get settled and tucking the furs around him carefully.

“You’ll spend a whole year feeling as if you’ve only had a few hours of sleep. You're more vulnerable that way. Like running around with a cold. ”

“Is this enough?” asked Thorin anxiously, smoothing a hand down Bilbo’s covers. “Do you feel safe here? Is there anything you need?”

Sleep was pulling at the corners of his mind, but Bilbo caught Thorin’s hand in his own, curling his fingers around it loosely. “No.” He yawned and smiled up at Thorin sleepily. “No, I have everything I need right here." He squeezed the dwarf's hand, reveling in how those strong fingers encompassed his own so securely. "Stay with me?” His eyes were slipping closed, the warmth of the bed pulling him down.

“For as long as you like. Anything for you.” A gentle kiss was pressed to his brow. “Rest well, ghivashel. ”

And Bilbo slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Whoops, this was supposed to have a part where they celebrate Yule in Erebor. And Bilbo's there but he's still really sleepy and keeps snuggling with Thorin in public. Maybe I'll add that as a bonus chapter later...
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/)


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